


The Future is X-Rated

by Renne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Barebacking, First Time, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur gets an unexpected return visitor and things take a turn for the sexy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Future is X-Rated

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://futureperfect.livejournal.com/852701.html).

It takes Arthur entirely too long to realise the noise he's been hearing for the past five minutes is not just the thunder of rain on the roof, but the thunder of a fist on the front door too. He glances at the clock and shifts lazily, before pushing himself up off the couch, hitching up his sweatpants with one hand.

There's only one person who knows Arthur is here and he's already left, so he forces himself to cautiously sidle over to the door. Then: "Arthur!" he hears Eames shout. "For fuck's sake, Arthur, I know you're in there, open up before I bloody well _drown_!"

He's pulled the door open before Eames can quite finish his tirade and yanks the other man inside, out of the weather. Wind flicks a gust of warm rain and the lush scent of wet greenery in through the gap in the door before Arthur slams it shut. "The road is completely washed out," Eames says before Arthur can even ask him why he's back. "No one will be going anywhere for a good while yet." He blinks at Arthur standing there in his sweatpants and no shirt. "Sorry, I would have waited it out in the car if I'd known you were sleeping."

"I wasn't sleeping," Arthur says. He'd been waiting and thinking and remembering. He'd been enjoying the slow build of anticipation in his body. He most definitely hadn't been sleeping.

Eames is soaked to the bone, standing just inside the door, looking pathetic as he drips all over the floorboards. His white t-shirt has gone transparent against his skin and Arthur can see the swirls and lines of his tattoos through the material. Arthur reaches out and follows a black line with his fingertips before he even realises what he's doing; the fabric is wet and warm to touch. "...Arthur?"

"Mm," Arthur says, recalling himself. He drops his hand. "Let me get you a towel."

"Right," says Eames slowly, distractedly, as Arthur moves towards the bathroom and when Arthur glances back at him he looks a little puzzled.

The towel Arthur tosses to Eames is one of the best, soft and white and fluffy, but Eames sets it aside as he toes out of his shoes. "There's no point, really," he says, "not while my clothes are so wet." He reaches up for the shoulders of his t-shirt then hesitates. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Eames," Arthur says in his flattest, most patient tone, "you are dripping all over my hardwood floor. Anything that stops you from doing that sooner? I really don't mind."

Eames grins. "Didn't think you would."

Arthur tries not to watch as Eames unselfconsciously strips off his t-shirt, all wet tanned skin and ink, and Eames doesn't seem to notice Arthur pretending not to ogle him as he holds up the bundle of his wet shirt and shoes and socks and says, "Do you have a bucket or...?"

Arthur jerks his head towards the bathroom. "Just drop it in the bath; we can take care of it later."

"'We'?" Eames says. "Are we going to be domestic and do the laundry together?" He flashes a smile at Arthur, who just rolls his eyes.

He still twists around to watch Eames pad barefoot to the bathroom through, and leans to his left a little to see around the doorframe when Eames – his back to Arthur – peels out of his sopping shorts. Arthur almost stops breathing when he realises Eames isn't wearing any underwear, and then does when Eames stretches languidly, completely naked. The sight of all that magnificent, bare flesh goes straight to his cock and Arthur grits his teeth. Don't go there, he tells himself. Not now. Just... Don't.

Eames takes one of Arthur's towels off the rail and wraps it around his waist, and when he turns Arthur snaps back around, snatching up the towel Eames had left on the bookshelf by the door, crouching to mop up the water from the floor.

"Do you think you'll have any clothes that'll fit me? I didn't bring my bag in from the car," Eames says from behind him. Now that Arthur's libido has been engaged, there is no stopping it, not with the casual purr of Eames' voice in his ears. "If not, I mean, I can run out to the car and grab it, that's no problem." He chuckles. "Not like I'm not dripping wet already, right? ...Arthur?"

Really, Eames couldn't have come back at a worse time. Arthur has strict rules in place for his interactions with Eames – rules that have always stood him in good stead to make sure things remain professional at all times. For example, right now Eames should have been an hour away, heading for the sub-par airstrip and the rickety WWII-era Cessna waiting to take him back to civilization, while Arthur should have been finally frantically masturbating over all the delicious things he'd memorised about Eames this time around.

Should have been.

Arthur has rules. He is _conditioned_ , damn it. His body (his temple) is expecting orgasms and how can he possibly let it down? What if he let it down now and it turns around and lets him down at some time when he really needed it, like in the middle of a gunfight or when he hooks up to the PASIV or when he's conning his way into someone business?

No, there's only one thing to do.

Arthur stands and turns resolutely, stalking over to Eames. Hands on Eames' bare chest, Arthur shoves him backwards, back until he stumbles on the edge of the rug, off balance, and then falls on the couch. Eames looks up at Arthur, startled and warm and intrigued, long eyelashes clumped wetly. "Arthur...?" he repeats. With one hand he clutches at the towel, just managing to preserve his modesty although the towel appears to be in cahoots with Arthur's lust and is doing its best to fall from his hips.

"You've ruined everything," Arthur says crossly. "This," he gestures between them, "whatever it is, is going to change forever because you came back."

"Oh...kay. Are you feeling alright—?"

" _I_ ," Arthur says forcefully, dropping down on one knee between Eames' splayed legs, "should not be dealing with _you_ right now." He slides his hands down to hook his thumbs under the elastic waistband of the sweatpants he's wearing. Eames' eyes widen as he tracks the movement of Arthur's hands and realises Arthur's cock is tenting the front of said sweatpants. Arthur tugs down his pants, freeing his cock. "I should be dealing with _this_."

The noise Eames makes is low and throaty and pure sex. He doesn't even bother tearing his eyes from Arthur's cock as he licks his lips. "Let me guess," he says roughly. "You want me to deal with it."

Arthur reaches out and curls his fingers in Eames' wet hair. "Do you want to?"

"Oh Jesus, Arthur, yes." Eames reaches out, towel forgotten, and slides his hands around the back of Arthur's thighs, pulling him close and leaning forward, pressing his face against Arthur's belly. His breath is warm and damp like Arthur's skin, and Arthur's cock nudges against his jaw.

Arthur hisses softly as Eames nuzzles the stubbled line of his jaw against it. He leans back and Eames shifts to take Arthur into his mouth (hot, hot and wet, all around him, the press of Eames' slick tongue, the light graze of his teeth and Arthur hisses again, breath through his teeth). He lets Eames suck him wet before his fingers tighten in Eames' hair and he tugs back. "No."

"Arthur, please—" And Eames pulls against the grip on his hair towards Arthur's cock.

"No," Arthur repeats, though his pulse thuds heavily in his throat and down between his legs at the knowledge Eames is completely cock hungry. He hopes to god they'll get a chance to revisit this, because that's something he desperately wants to exploit. Eames, begging to suck him off, _god_.

As tempting as it is to push back into Eames' mouth, he doesn't. Instead Arthur wraps his fingers around his cock wet with Eames' spit and strokes himself, the method familiar: squeeze, twist, his thumb against the head pushing through the slick of pre-come; he catches his lower lip between his teeth as his eyes half-close. He doesn't have to think of all the things he'd been saving up for this – Eames looking-smiling-laughing at him; casually touching Arthur's shoulder-hand-arm with hands cooler than the humid, sullen air; the tilt of his head and the droplets of sweat clinging to his throat; Eames coming here to him to share information, just because (just because _why_ , Arthur doesn't know) – because when he looks down, there is Eames below him, feverish and aroused and there just for him.

He watches Arthur jerking off with bright, eager eyes, the towel pushed aside to reveal his own cock jutting up thick and hard and red. Arthur untangles his fingers from Eames' hair and reaches down, lightly touching the drops glistening at the head of Eames' cock and then touching his fingers to his tongue (and oh god, Eames' taste, subtle and different to his own).

Eames' mouth opens then closes in an aborted whine of desire and his fingers tighten convulsively on the back of Arthur's thighs.

"Open," Arthur orders softly, and he's proud his voice is steady even if his breathing is not, even as he feels the tightness of his building orgasm in his balls and in his belly. He braces himself on one hand on the back of the couch and cups Eames' jaw with the other as Eames whispers " _Yes_ ," leaning forward, lips parting to take the head of Arthur's cock, breath hot even on enflamed skin. Arthur strokes once, twice and then he comes, hips stuttering as he feels Eames' tongue lapping against the head of his cock as he spurts into Eames' mouth, as he empties himself, silent but for his gasping breaths.

Eames pulls him deeper, right down his throat until his nose is buried in the coarse curls of hair at the base of Arthur's cock, swallowing down everything Arthur gives him. Arthur is shaking when he finally eases out of Eames' mouth, leaving one last smear of come on Eames' lip.

It takes a moment to steady himself (Eames running his hands up and down Arthur's flanks, obsessive and needy, doesn't help), and then Arthur pulls back and kicks out of his sweatpants, shifting until he straddles Eames, knees nudging against the back of the couch as he sits on Eames' thighs. Arthur curls forward to kiss Eames deeply. He's always wondered what it would feel like to kiss that mouth (lush lips, clever, wicked tongue) and _oh_ , oh it's good, it's better than good as Eames surges up underneath him, his tongue thick with Arthur's taste.

Eames' hands slide up his thighs and over his hips through the slick of sweat drying on Arthur's skin. Eventually Eames pulls back, looking up at Arthur, his gaze hot. "I want to fuck you," he says in a voice broken with desire. "Arthur, please."

Arthur smiles and rubs his thumb over Eames' bottom lip and Eames catches the tip between his lips a moment. It doesn't matter anymore that Eames has ruined Arthur's precious, impeccable rules, disrupting his routine from memories to the real thing. He reaches back for the lube he'd set on the coffee table just after Eames had left and slathers his fingers, wrapping slippery fingers around Eames' cock. Eames makes that delicious noise again. "Not too much of that," Eames says in a choked voice, "or I'm not gonna last long enough to fuck you properly." He has a stupid grin on his face, a little embarrassed, but desperately adoring and Arthur touches his mouth again, tracing his smile.

Then Arthur guides Eames' cock up against him, the head nudging up against his hole. Eames' eyes widen. "Don't you need to...?"

But Arthur just smiles a little, closing his eyes and breathing out slowly as he lowers himself down onto Eames' cock, the thick head stretching his body open with the warm burn of friction that Arthur loves. "That is so hot," Eames says. His hands spasm on Arthur's hips and Arthur flicks him a wild grin as he pushes himself down further until he's taken Eames' full length.

Arthur lets out another deep breath. "You feel so fucking good." He kisses Eames hard.

Then he begins to move.

Bracing himself on the back of the couch again, he slowly rolls his hips, breathing steadily as he rides Eames' cock. Beneath him Eames groans his name helplessly, " _Arthur_ ," and "oh _fuck me_ ," and "bloody hell, you, you, _you_."

Again Arthur touches Eames' lush mouth, sliding two fingers into that (familiar) wet heat. Eames sucks on Arthur's fingers, his head tipped back against the cushions and his eyes half-lidded in a haze of pleasure as he thrusts up against Arthur. He looks so fucking good that Arthur never wants to see anything else; just Eames, bared and undone beneath him, the glimmer of sweat across his collarbones, his lips reddened from Arthur's mouth, from being stretched around his cock. Fingers slip on sweaty skin and it's so, so hot inside the house, the storm humidity and sexual desire like a wet blanket pressing against Arthur's skin, Eames burning up beneath him.

Arthur's not nearly physically ready to come again, but the feeling of Eames pushing up into him, the thick wetness of his tongue against Arthur's fingers, thrusting in between them against the web of skin, like Arthur is fucking himself on Eames... God, he could. He really could.

Then Eames mumbles something desperate around Arthur's fingers, his eyes springing open, blown wide and dark. His hips jerk and he pushes up deep inside Arthur as he comes and as Arthur grinds down to meet him Arthur slides his fingers out of Eames' mouth and up into his hair, tangling tight as he tugs Eames' mouth to his.

It's wet and sloppy as Eames kisses him deeply, his hands skating over Arthur's wet skin. Any reckless words are muffled and breathy against Arthur's mouth and are the most beautiful sounds Arthur's ever heard.

Eventually, finally, once Eames relaxes against him, he eases off and falls to his side on the cushions. Arthur pulls at Eames until he shifts to lay the length of the couch and Arthur can sprawl over him, sticky and relaxed. "Ugh. It's too hot for this," Arthur says, but pushes in closer anyway. He'd forgotten how much he gets off on sex and skin on skin when it's this kind of hot and humid. Eames hums and pushes a leg up between Arthur's thighs and Arthur can feel the wetness of Eames' come smearing between their skin.

"Is that...? Oh. _Oh_." Eames presses an open-mouthed kiss against Arthur's jaw line apologetically. "Sorry about that."

Arthur huffs a laugh. "It's okay. I wouldn't have let you if I didn’t want it." He cards his fingers through Eames' damp hair and takes a deep breath before saying, "We should do this again some time."

He can feel Eames grin against his skin. "You're wrong, Arthur. We should do this all the time," he corrects. " _All the time_. You have no idea how long I've wanted to fuck you."

For all the heat in the air, radiating from Eames' body, Arthur feels a flush of warmth tingle through him right down to his toes. He can't help the pleasure that bleeds into his tone. "I think I do," he says, "if it's anything like how long _I've_ wanted you to fuck me."

Eames laughs softly. "Oh Arthur, darling, have we got a lot of missed time to make up for."

"Mm," Arthur says, letting his hands wander across bare skin, enjoying the feel of Eames' body – better than he'd ever fantasised, more welcoming than he could have believed – pressed against his. Every now and then Eames rubs his thigh up against Arthur and it should be gross, but Arthur doesn't care right now. Instead, lazily, he thinks of coaxing Eames into the shower to make up for some of that missed time, of wrapping his legs around Eames' waist as Eames fucks him again, hot under cool water.

"What did you mean before," Eames asks eventually, his consonants slurred against Arthur's throat, "when you said I ruined everything?"

Arthur laughs. "It doesn't matter anymore."


End file.
